


Ash

by havetardiswilltimetravel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, mentions of torture, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28177524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havetardiswilltimetravel/pseuds/havetardiswilltimetravel
Summary: Another year. More smoke. His life had burned down around him. And he'd lit the flame. Or Moriarty had for him...it doesn't matter anymore...he can still taste the ash.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 54





	Ash

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to @KitJit for reading this through before my posting! <3333

He hadn't thought it would hurt so much. His return. He certainly hadn't thought it would hurt as much as two years of solitude and detachment and pain. But then again, he hadn't counted on John Watson maintaining his distance. He hadn't counted on the rage and the hurt in John's eyes. He hadn't counted on Baker Street being empty, completely empty.

Two years away, and he's still alone.

\----

The emptiness is overwhelming. It's permeated the flat and sunk down beneath his ribs.

\----

He thinks the silence is hardest to bear. He didn't used to mind it, but now it's deafening. There are times when it rakes across his mind and makes him doubt whether he’s home at all.

\----

One day he tries to drown it out with his violin, but the notes are off, discordant, wrong. What he once had now eludes him, and the loss cuts him deeper than he’d ever thought. He puts the instrument down, and he doesn't reach for it again. 

\----

When John finally comes by, it's like oxygen. John's still angry. But he's there. Sherlock deserves his anger. He knows he does. It hurts, but Sherlock would take John’s anger 100 times over if it would just get him to stay.

\----

It's been one month since Sherlock's return to Baker Street. It's been three days since John's. Nothing's quite right. But John seems to think things could be. Sherlock wants to believe him. 

\----

John hasn't asked about his time away yet. He's somehow grateful and unsure at the same time. He doesn't know what he would do if John were to ask. He lays on his bed one night, staring at his ceiling dispassionately, putting off sleep. It's a question that needs to be considered.

He swallows and squeezes his eyes shut until bright spots burst into existence, and he contemplates them instead. When he opens his eyes, the spots remain, dancing on the ceiling where there was only darkness before.

_You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you're unbeatable._

The spots fade, and he's left in the dark once more.

\----

It's odd, but the emptiness doesn't seem to fade once John comes home. What was once constricting his ribs now seems to be trying to swallow him whole.

\----

John tells Sherlock to make a birthday wish. He's made a proper effort - the cake, the badly-wrapped present. He looks so hopeful that Sherlock will like it, that Sherlock will accept that bit of normalcy into their lives again.

Sherlock looks at the candle in front of him. He refrains from his usual dismissal of the date. He refrains from saying that wishes are silly. He refrains from pointing out that though the tradition may have started with such a belief, smoke does not actually carry one's prayers to any sort of deity above. There is no magic in carbon and tar.

Sherlock looks at the candle and watches it burn.

Another year. More smoke. His life had burned down around him. And he'd lit the flame. Or Moriarty had for him...it doesn't matter anymore...he can still taste the ash.

He should be happy. He has his life back now, everything neatly in place. Everything should be fine. Except now he can't sleep because he dreams. Loud noises startle him, and sometimes his mind grinds to a halt at the simplest of things. What he wants to delete won't go, and when it comes for him, it consumes everything. He doesn't feel like he's in his own skin anymore. Quite honestly, for a man who never died, he feels like a corpse.

Another year. More smoke. He blows out the candle and wishes for the memories to go away. 

\----

He can still taste the ash. Sometimes it fills his throat, and he chokes on it. But mostly, he swallows it down, because that's not what John Watson needs from him. Not when they're so close to what they had. That's not what John Watson needs, and what _he_ needs most is for John Watson to stay.

\----

He's lost his fondness for cigarettes.

He lights one anyway.

\----

"What's wrong?" John sounds worried. His voice is laced with alarm. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock is sure breathing used to be easier. The ash has reached his lungs now. He'll cough up dust at any moment. John will be coated in it, and nothing will be the same…

"I'm burnt up inside..." he says faintly, huffing out a morbid sort of laugh, and John only looks more alarmed.

"What?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, eyes unfocused. He'd never said it out loud before. He hadn't meant to just then. But it's true, and the sentence just seems to revolve around in his head. It won't stop. Around and around and around. Is there even any of him left?

What would anyone want with a shell of Sherlock Holmes?

\----

It feels like he's drowning.

\----

When he swims up, he's on the floor. He doesn't remember sitting down. John Watson stares at him, concern overlaid with a sadness that could only come from understanding. 

Sherlock swallows.

_Oh._

\----

This is not what he'd hoped for.

\----

They sit like that for a long time. Everything feels distorted, muted, out of touch. He knows John knows, because John is clever. He's sure John doesn't know all of it, but he's sure John will ask and then what is he supposed to say?

"Sherlock?"

If John leaves, he thinks he might shatter.

"Sherlock??"

He doesn't want to break, but the fractures are already there.

“Sherlock!”

It briefly registers that it's hard to breathe again. The air is rushing in his ears and he's oddly lightheaded. It's only when he feels a hand on his arm that the world comes rushing back.

He looks up to find John kneeling in front of him, his eyes worried and warm and protective and safe.

Sherlock’s lips press firmly together but his eyes waver, and though they stray, they always seem to come back to the man in front of him. The man looking at him like he matters. The man looking at him like he cares. The man looking at him like he used to. 

When he breaks, John doesn't leave.

When he breaks, John holds him and doesn't let go.

\----

Dark rooms. Unfamiliar hands. Burning, stale smoke, cigarettes and pain. Can't breathe can't breathe c an't brea th e

\----

John wakes him up at 3 am. Sherlock looks at him - eyes panicked, lost, unsure - and John moves to him without a second thought. He places Sherlock's hand on his chest, covers it with his own, and they breathe together until Sherlock's thin, jagged breathing softens into a regular rhythm. 

When John starts to pull away, Sherlock grabs at his hand without thought, wanting desperately for him to stay. He lets it go as soon as he realizes, hand curling against the sheets, and swallows at his mistake. He can't take too much. He knows this. He's already taken so much of John. 

But then the bed dips down, and John is there, eyes warm and reassuring, his palm brushing softly against Sherlock’s own as he laces their fingers together. Sherlock swallows. After a moment of hesitation, he squeezes John’s hand. Something loosens in his chest when he feels John squeeze back.

_It's all fine._

\----

Dark rooms. Familiar hands. Freezing, water, muffled laughter. Can't breathe. Can't breathe. Ca n't br eath e.

\----

Sherlock wakes John up at 2:15 am. John looks at the figure in his doorway - shaking, haunted - and pulls back his duvet. Sherlock's heart stutters, and he's curled up under the covers in seconds. He swallows, trying to still the small tremors under his skin that won't stop. John reaches out, calloused fingers grazing his arm, and suddenly it's a little easier to breathe.

"John..." his voice is wrung out, raw. He sounds lost. He hates it. Even in the dark, he's exposed.

"Hey..." John murmurs quietly, and the pure emotion in the word is enough to make his chest ache.

Sherlock swallows - and swallows again - before moving closer and burrowing into John, too tired to care about the consequences. He just wants to feel safe. He holds his breath against the possible rejection, half-waiting for John to stiffen, to move away, to take back his personal space. But it doesn't happen. Instead, several long seconds later, he feels John’s cheek press tentatively against his temple, feels John’s hand smooth down his back. John's arm wraps around him, warm and weighted, and it feels...safe. He exhales shakily at the feeling and nudges his head against John's jaw until he's tucked in even closer.

"It's alright."

It's not, but the way John says it, it's almost like a promise. 

"I'm here."

John's voice is hoarse, but soft, and it spools around him like warm honey.

"You can sleep."

John's fingers card through his hair, and he thinks maybe, maybe he can...

He closes his eyes.

\----

When he blinks awake in the morning, he's still in John's arms. John brushes his fringe from his eyes and gives him a small reassuring smile, searching Sherlock's face for any hint of discomfort. The smile Sherlock gives back is tired and achingly open, and for the first time in quite a long time...completely genuine.

\----

He hadn't realized how much he'd missed the cases.

There had been cases, of course, in the months since he'd returned. And he'd searched for the clues, puzzled out the motives, chased the suspects; he'd done what he always had, and he'd solved each and every case.

But he hadn't _felt_ them.

\----

Dark rooms. Whips, pain. Jagged laughter, giving up. Can't breathe. Can't breathe, c an 't bre atheee

_Do you remember sleep?_

\----

Sherlock jolts awake at 4 am, a low broken noise tearing from his throat before he can stop it. His panic consumes him in the darkness, unsure of anything - the world, the universe - building, building, far too much, too much, too much, too much. He can't move. He can't breathe. It's going to crush him.

John's touch makes him flinch away. John's voice, soft and steady, slowly pulls him back. It tells him where they are, how they'd met, what they'd had for breakfast that morning. It tells him to focus on the feel of the sheets beneath him, to breathe in, to breathe out. It filters through the cacophony in his head and tells him he's safe, they're safe, that he's in London, that he’s home, over and again, until recognition hits and it draws him back. 

_John._

Sherlock rolls into John's waiting arms and finds his pulse point. He can feel the warmth bleeding through John's shirt, can feel John's heart beating under his fingers. This is John. This is real. This is real.

Sherlock can feel the tears cooling on his face. John kisses them away. He closes his eyes and tucks his face into the crook of John's neck, breathing him in. Real. John. Home.

\----

Later, John's fingers trace his scars through his shirt, and Sherlock takes a stuttering breath.

"You came back to me..." John murmurs after a moment, voice hoarse and quiet. “…thank you for coming back to me."

\----

_I was so alone and I owe you so much._

\----

“I love you."

The words come out one morning weeks later without him meaning them to, in the middle of toast and tea and nothing in particular, and for a moment, they're both caught off guard. But then John smiles, soft and open, and everything else melts away.

"I love you, too."

\----

There’s a present on the table, and a cake beside it.

John tells him to make a birthday wish, and Sherlock considers the candle in front of him.

Another year. Another flame.

Things aren’t ok. But they’re better. They’re easier. And he’s not alone.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and wishes for another year.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried something new with the format in this one. Let me know what you thought!


End file.
